It’s been six months since my last Aids test. And yes, I have sinned. But I really wasn’t worried. Until I was having some blood taken — my blood pressure was a touch low — and on impulse I said: “Since you have all this blood already, why don’t you do an HIV test, too?”
“Is there any incident you’re worried about?” my doctor asked kindly.
I smiled, smug: “I’m very careful. I always use condoms.”
“Well, they’re 85% to 89% reliable,” she said, pleased. “But you know, I read in an HIV publication that even if everyone used condoms every time they had sex, at the current rate, everyone will still be HIV-positive in 10 years. But you’re probably fine.”
“Better than nothing. Anyway … stats … 99% unreliable.”
She didn’t laugh. She said, chilling my blood: “Remember, if you’re positive, it’s not a death sentence. I’ll call you on Tuesday morning.”
I walked home that sunny Saturday thinking, “Ten percent failure rate?” And that’s if it didn’t slip off. That’s if it didn’t slide down, exposing taut, thin, blood-engorged tissues. That’s if I didn’t bend the rules because — as a gay friend tells me — “The jury’s still out on oral sex.”
Then seconds later, I felt so silly for worrying. I’d taken a test! So many people don’t bother! I’m one of the careful ones! Good for me!
But fast forward to present: It’s Monday night, and my doctor hasn’t called yet.
I’m in a cold sweat — obsessed with the 0,5% chance, all risks meticulously calculated, that I may already be dying. I even go to my www.africans.co.za profile and alter my HIV status from “Negative” to the worst two words I’m sure I’ve ever read, “Not sure”.
Tonight, my sex life flashes before my eyes. Each tiny risk I took has me rocking in my chair, shaking my head, racked with guilt.
There was the time the condom vanished, and had to be excavated. Could that have been the slip that’ll kill me? Afterwards, I discussed where he’d been and what (who) he’d done. I felt 100% okay then. But now I’m not so sure.
There were those times I gave oral sex. Could there have been a cut, a vulnerable bit of flesh, into which the virus slithered? Oh, God. At the time, I felt totally safe. But now I’m not so sure.
And then what about the guy who was so good with condoms. Could he have been as deft when slipping them off? How would I know? And what do I know about him? Not much. Plus, there’s always that 10% chance. Oh, I felt fine about it next morning. But now I’m not so sure.
And then the guy who tried to do it without a condom? Must have been a only few seconds before I fought my debilitating lust, and him, off. But in that few seconds, who knows what got into me?
And that’s not the worst. The worst is that if I do have HIV, I may have killed someone else.
While I make love light-heartedly, I’m not cold. And every brief bond . tortures me now. Could one of those whose mouth I’ve kissed, drinking in their breath, adoring them while it lasted, be my victim?
I imagine calling them up. One by one: “Hi. Remember me? Oh, you do. That’s sweet of … Well … oh thanks. Ha ha. Er, thanks, yes … better have been really good. Why? Oh, because you might be dying.” (I’m sure there’s a nicer way to say it.)
Of course, I tell myself, the chances are 99,5% that I’m fine. But 99,5%’s not good enough, tonight. It’s just not good enough.
Outside, cars swish by. People go for drinks, take baths, watch Frasier, make dinner, make love, make plans. Life streams past. But here, in my flat, everything is deathly calm. Time stands still. What if?
I look in the mirror. This pimple: Is it really a pimple? Is that a mosquito bite, or shingles? Is my pee the right colour … Is that yellow the right yellow?
I’m sure every blotch is evidence of antibodies overreacting to an infection, chewing up my life, eating my flesh. Why did I ever take that test? Before I saw my blood in that tube, I was sure I was fine.
If I’m okay, I promise myself, I’ll be good. I swear over and over. I swear on my life.
Tick, tock, tick, tock … It feels like my last night on Earth.
Goda Ellis was contacted at 11.46am on Tuesday. Result: Negative